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Updated: May 31, 2025
The settlers walked about, smoking, or sat silently in the darkened living room. At midnight Tharon and young Paula made huge pots of coffee which they dispensed along with crullers. By dawn the cattle were well on their way, still safeguarded by the band of men, down toward the homesteads where they belonged.
Are you not amazed to see me here?" she insisted, mischievously amused at his unaltered features. The Sagamore said smilingly: "When she wills it, who can follow the Rosy-throated Pigeon in her swift flight? Not the Enchantress in the moon. Tharon alone, O Rosy-throated One!" "The wild pigeon has outwitted you all, has she not, Mayaro, my friend?" "Nakwah! Let my brother Loskiel deny it, then.
Jim Last had had great stacks of paper, neat, glazed sheets with faint lines upon them, made somewhere in that mysterious "below" and brought in by pack train. It was on one of these, with the distinctive words "Last's Holding" printed at the top, that the thirty men had signed themselves into the new law of the Valley. To Tharon these sheets had always been magic, invested with grave dignity.
"All laws break of themselves before us twain, who, having been hidden, are prepared for mating where we will and when.... And if the long flight be truly ended and the home forests guard our secret and if Tharon be God also and His stars the altar lights and his river-mist my veil " She faltered, and her clear gaze became confused. "Why should your Indians question you?" she asked.
Courtrey, who kept close count of the favours he did for others, considered Cleve deep in his debt and paid him a niggardly wage. So it was, that when the newly organized Vigilantes under Tharon Last came out in broad day and took back their own from Courtrey's herds, there was one at the Stronghold who laughed quietly to himself in sympathy with the defy.
Young Paula, half asleep in the deep recesses of the house, had witnessed that furious encounter by the western door on the soft spring day when Jim Last had come home to die at dusk. She knew that the look in Courtrey's eyes had been covetousness and she had told José. José, loyal and sensible, had told the boys. To Tharon, who knew more than all of them put together, this was funny.
It burst up like a mushroom with a chance remark made by Lola of the Golden Cloud Lola, who had seen, since that night in spring when Tharon Last stood in the door and promised to "get" her father's killer, that Courtrey was slipping from her. A woman like Lola is hard to deceive. Much experience had taught her to feel the change of winds in the matter of allegiance.
She leaned down again and called once more into the stallion's ear and once more the note rose a notch. She felt that great pulsing seeming of reserve. Always when she called there was the answer. The plain swam beneath her like a blur. The thunder of the king's hoofs was a single note also. Then Tharon raised her eyes and saw that she had left the open land behind.
"Dad!" screamed Tharon, shrill as a bugle, for Jim Last, white and dull as a moon in fog, let go his desperate hold on the pommel and slid, deadweight, into the reaching arms that circled him. They carried him into the living room. Before they had him safely on the wide couch where the Indian blankets glowed, Tharon, trembling but efficient, had lighted the hanging lamp above the table.
Will you get down and let me show you my house, here in my glade?" Tharon sat quietly for a moment and looked down at him. She did not remove her hand from under his, neither did she seem to be conscious of it. "Why should I?" she asked presently, "you don't owe me anything. I sent you away from my house. I wouldn't have come here if I'd known where I was goin'. It was a chance." "Granted.
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